FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


FIRST  POEMS  &•  FRAGMENTS 


BY 


PHILIP  HENRY  SAVAGE 


BOSTON 

COPELAND  AND  DAY 
I895 


COPYRIGHT    BY    COPELAND  AND  DAY  MDCCCXCV 


TO  GERTRUDE  SAVAGE 


A  WINDING  WATER  ONWARD  FLOWS, 
AND  WHITHER,  ONLY  OCEAN  KNOWS  j 
HAPPY  THE  CRYSTAL  SOURCE  THAT  LIES 
REFLECTING  IN  ITS  HEART  THE  SKIES. 


305586 


CONTENTS 


DEDICATION 

APOLOGY 

SHORTER  POEMS.     I  -XXVIII  Page  3 

LONGER  POEMS.     I  -VII  31 

SONNETS.     I  -XVI  59 

FRAGMENTS.     I-V  81 


APOLOGY 

BE  more  concrete,  immediate  to  man ! 
So  did  he  counsel  me,  the  sage;  and  I, 
Taking  for  naught  the  gentle  guidances 
Of  nature,  who  in  all  my  life  before 
Had  lived  unconscious,  leaving  much  to  her, 
I  cast  her  out;  so  I  forgot  the  sky 
And  turned  my  eyes  into  the  heart  of  man. 
But  poetry  is  a  swift,  unconscious  growth, 
Springs  native  where  it  may,  and  ever  lives 
The  child  of  impulse  unaware  and  wild; 
And  passion  many  times  must  rise  and  fall 
And  much  of  life  be  lived  before  the  word 
Spring  up  to  utterance  and  demand  a  birth. 
So  was  I  barren  many  days  and  so 
I  doubted  him,  the  sage  and  moralist ; 
Therefore  at  last  I  claimed  again  the  days 
When  I  was  not  so  much  and  nature  more, 
When  beauty  rose,  if  beauty  it  were,  and  clothed 
A  happy  impulse  or  a  strong  desire 
In  forms  and  colors  native  to  the  time. 


SHORTER  POEMS 
I -XXVIII 


'^T^  IS  grace  to  sing  to  nature,  and  to  pray 
JL    The  God  of  nature,  out  of  His  large  heart, 

To  grant  us  knowledge  of  His  human  way; 
This  is  the  whole  of  nature  and  of  art. 


II 


EVEN  in  the  city,  I 
Am  ever  conscious  of  the  sky ; 
A  portion  of  its  frame  no  less 
Than  in  the  open  wilderness. 
The  stars  are  in  my  heart  by  night; 
I  sing  beneath  the  opening  light, 
As  envious  of  the  bird ;  I  live 
Upon  the  pavement,  yet  I  give 
My  soul  to  every  growing  tree 
That  in  the  narrow  ways  I  see. 
My  heart  is  in  the  blade  of  grass 
Within  the  courtyard  where  I  pass ; 
And  the  small,  half-discovered  cloud 
Compels  me  till  I  cry  aloud. 
I  am  the  wind  that  beats  the  walls 
And  wanders  trembling  till  it  falls ; 
The  snow,  the  summer  rain  am  I, 
In  close  communion  with  the  sky. 


FIRST  POEMS'.  &  FRAGMENTS 


III 

WHEN  I  look  on  Ossipee 
Not  the  hill  alone  I  see ; 
Not  the  hill  I  see  to-day 
Fair  and  large  and  distant  gray, 
But  a  mountain  richly  bright, 
Shining  with  eternal  light. 
Fashioned  in  a  fearful  past, 
Born  to  be  while  life  shall  last, 
Yet  I  fear  thee  not,  but  know 
Thou  shalt  ever  with  me  go. 
I  shall  see  thee,  I  shall  find 
The  vision  ever  in  the  mind, 
Given  to  me  one  happy  hour 
And  received  by  me  in  power; 
I  shall  never  know  the  day 
When  thy  touch  has  passed  away; 
For  thy  spirit,  Ossipee, 
Has  become  a  part  of  me. 

IV 

UPON  a  pasture  hill  a  pine-tree  stands 
And  in  the  air  holds  up  its  slender  hands; 
A  double  sheep-track  turns  beneath  the  tree, 
Dips  to  the  firs,  and  seeks  the  meadow  lands. 

4 


SHORTER  POEMS 

The  sun  is  setting ;  slowly,  one  by  one, 
Faint  breaths  of  wind  along  the  branches  run; 

The  quiet  of  the  hills  is  on  the  air 
And  on  the  earth  beneath  a  quiet  sun. 

• 

In  contrast  with  the  sky  a  gray  stone  wall 
Is  black  beneath  the  orange  light  j  and  all 

The  earth  is  black ;  never  so  black  the  earth 
As  underneath  a  sunset  sky  in  fall. 

The  pine-tree's  plumy  branches  make  a  net 
And  hold  the  light  of  heaven ;  and  nearer  yet, 

Cold  in  the  unfeatured  blackness  of  the  ground, 
Up-springs  a  ray  from  some  hid  rivulet, 

Deep  in  the  pasture  hummocks  at  my  feet ; 
I  hear  its  icy  ripple,  low  and  sweet; 

No  other  sound ;  but  in  the  air,  unheard, 
I  hear  the  pulse  of  winter  coldly  beat. 


WHAT  know  I  of  the  fields  of  fall, 
The  autumn  days  beyond  the  town? 
I  do  not  hear  the  harvest-call, 
I  do  not  see  the  pastures  brown ; 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


The  upland  sloping  to  the  down, 
With  corn-shocks  leaning  on  the  wall ; 
And  golden  ground-fruit  shining  through  it  all, 

They  tell  me  of  the  violet 

Upon  the  hill,  bare  at  the  crest; 
Of  the  autumnal  primrose  set 

Deep  where  the  banks  protect  it  best ; 

Of  summer  fallow  fields  now  drest 
In  green ;  of  meadows  deep  and  wet ; 
Ah !  I  have  seen  and  I  shall  not  forget ! 

Where  stubble-fields  give  way  to  fern 
In  meadows  where  the  water  lies, 

I  've  seen  the  sharp-flamed  sumac  burn 
And  flash  its  fires  before  my  eyes. 
Faint  pictures  of  the  river  rise 

With  blowing  mist  beyond  the  turn ; 

Of  lean  November  forests  bare  and  stern. 

I  once  have  seen;  and  all  the  kind 
Stood  round  me  in  that  happy  year ; 

In  one  bright  impulse  of  the  mind 
I  was  the  centre  of  the  sphere; 
The  spring  and  summer  centred  here 

On  autumn;  winter  stood  behind 

And  beckoned,  whispering  in  the  smoky  wind. 

6 


SHORTER  POEMS 


VI 


THE  sea  is  silent  round  this  rocky  shore ; 
The  forest  wind 

From  the  loud  level  beach  behind 
Brings  rolling  up  the  distant  water's  roar. 

Silent  the  wheeling  sea-gull  in  the  air, 

Without  a  cry ; 

Far  off  beneath  the  bending  sky 
A  silent  ship  goes  down  the  ocean  stair. 

The  sea  is  blue,  the  sky  is  white  with  cloud, 

The  land  is  white ; 

The  seaward  rocks  are  shining  bright, 
Enwrapped  in  a  white,  salt,  and  icy  shroud. 

The  weeds  and  bushes  bare  above  the  snow, 

Against  the  sun 

Hold  up  brave  stems,  and  many  a  one 
Has  February  bits  of  bud  to  show. 

Where  roses  grew  in  one  wild  garden-close 

I  pulled  away 

A  pair  of  rose-hips  for  to-day  ; 
Memorial  to  the  mistress  of  the  rose. 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


VII 

WHEN  February  sun  shines  cold 
There  comes  a  day  when  in  the  air 
The  wings  of  winter  slow  unfold 
And  show  the  golden  summer  there. 

Dead  ivy  on  the  winter  wall 
Is  glowing  with  an  April  light ; 

And  all  the  wreckage  of  the  fall 
Above  the  snow  comes  into  sight. 

By  a  green  rock  beneath  the  pines 
Are  shadows  blue  along  the  snow. 

Above  the  silent  sun  the  lines 
Of  cloud  in  white  procession  go. 

A  bloom  is  on  the  forest  tops 

Of  red  light  bursting  through  the  brown. 
The  ice  awakes,  and  silver  drops 

Come  through  the  meadow  stealing  down. 

The  sky  is  hushed  ;  beneath  the  trees 
Where  silentness  and  night  have  birth, 

I  heard  the  sunset  whisper,  Peace  ! 

Peace,  Peace  !  the  gods  are  on  the  earth. 


8 


SHORTER  POEMS 


VIII 

STILL,  in  the  meadow  by  the  brook  I  lay 
And  felt  the  April  creep  along  my  streams, 
Subdue  my  currents  to  herself  and  play 

At  hide-and-seek  with  winter  in  my  dreams. 

Rich  in  the  summer  day  the  time  is  rife 
With  all  an  eager  fancy  will  contrive ; 

But  April  welcomes  each  new  shock  of  life 
The  sluggard  winter  from  the  heart  to  drive. 

Thus  did  I  tremble  at  the  passing  bird, 

Leaped  in  the  sun  and  with  the  breezes  ran, 

My  heart  a  brook,  and  all  my  life  a  word 
To  tell  how  near  to  nature  is  a  man. 


IX 

IN  the  first  pale  flush  of  even 
When  the  sun  is  hardly  down, 
Ere  the  stars  are  in  the  heaven, 
Ere  the  shadows  turn  to  brown ; 

When  the  eastern  sky  is  darkened 
And  the  zenith  still  is  blue, 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 

I  have  stood  and  dimly  hearkened 
To  the  falling  of  the  dew. 

I  have  stood  within  the  hollow 
By  low,  rolling  hummocks  made, 

Close  beside  a  sloping  fallow 
In  the  bottom  of  a  glade, 

While  the  west  was  slowly  dying ; 

And  the  dark  east  followed  fast, 
Swarming  over,  swiftly  flying 

Till  the  world  was  overcast, 

Downward,  past  the  dim  horizon 
Till  the  valley  filled  with  night, 

And  the  cool  earth-whisper  rising, 
Filled  me  with  a  wild  delight! 

Let  the  day  go  by  to  even. 

Hark  !  the  distant  vespers'  toll. 
When  the  sun  is  set  in  heaven 

It  is  sunrise  in  the  soul. 


X 

WHEN  evening  comes  and  shadows  gray 
Steal  out  across  the  glimmering  bay 
And  tremble  in  the  air  between; 

10 


SHORTER  POEMS 

When  evening  comes  and  shadows  green 
Are  shaken  down  across  the  moor 
From  willow-trees  along  the  shore ; 

When  evening  stoops  across  the  hill 
Towards  the  sunset  glowing  still 
And  fills  the  hollow  glens  with  shade; 

When  evening  gathers  in  the  glade ; 
And  all  the  little  beasts  now  run 
That  erst  were  hidden  from  the  sun ; 

Then  do  I  hear  the  footsteps  fall 
That  bitter  day  hears  not  at  all ; 
Then  is  the  sunset  like  a  door 
That  leads  me  on  to  more  and  more, 
Till  in  the  quietness  of  night 
I  find  a  freedom  and  a  light 
Eternal  such  as  nowhere  glows 
From  any  sun  that  ever  rose. 

XI 

WITH  all  the  soul  within  me  and  suppressed 
Before  the  sunset,  heard  I,  and  confessed, 
A  breath  of  God  from  out  the  whispered  hand 
Held  o'er  the  lips  of  the  great  speaking  west. 

n 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


Heard  it,  and  all  the  soul  within  me  burned  ! 
Heard  it,  and  wondered  at  the  secret  learned  ; 

And  all  the  busy  accidents  of  life 
O'erwhelmed  it  then ;  it  never  has  returned. 

Thus  once  the  doors  of  heaven  wide  open  stand  ; 
The  voice  is  heard,  of  promise  or  command  ; 

Is  seen  the  gleam ;  and  then  the  portals  close 
And  nature  grows  again  upon  the  land. 

XII 

I  LOVE  to  walk  against  the  yellow  light, 
The  lemon-yellow  of  the  first  daylight, 
When  cold  and  clear  above  the  frozen  earth 
The  white  sun  rises  far  down  to  the  right. 

And  then  to  think  of  life  is  very  sweet ; 
The  shackles  fall  and  drop  about  one's  feet ; 

Till  in  the  clear  forgetfulness  of  morn 
It  seems  the  world  and  life  are  all  complete. 


12 


SHORTER  POEMS 


'T  is  good  to  be  forgotten  and  forget ; 
To  look  upon  the  sun  and  so  beget 

A  golden  present,  and  a  past  that 's  free, 
A  little  time,  of  memory  and  regret. 

And  when  one  strikes  and  stumbles  on  a  stone, 
And  turns  to  find  the  winged  fancies  flown  — 

Yet  through  the  passages  of  life  that  day 
Will  run  a  radiance  other  than  its  own. 

XIII 

THE  flash  of  sunlight  from  a  bit  of  glass 
Has  often  power  to  stop  me  as  I  pass ; 
And  when  I  turn  into  the  burning  west 
I  fling  me  down  upon  the  sunny  grass, 

Silent.    I  tell  not  all  the  little  things 
That  fly  to  me  and  give  my  spirit  wings ; 

The  black-eyed  bird,  the  cloud,  the  silver  leaf, 
The  valley  wind  that  passes  as  it  sings. 

And  when  the  sun  descending  from  the  height, 
Seeks  in  the  sunken  west  the  bath  of  night, 

Wrapped  in  the  darkling  mantle  of  the  sky 
I  wander  forth  and  seek  a  new  delight. 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 

XIV 

THE  influences  of  air  and  sky 
Are  side  lights  from  the  eternal  throne 
That  fall  upon  the  watchful  eye 
Of  him  who  silent  waits,  alone, 
And  crown  him  master  of  his  own. 
He  knows  the  beauty  of  the  rose; 
The  central  sun,  the  farthest  star  he  knows. 

The  balance  of  a  blade  of  grass, 

The  winds  that  in  the  meadows  run, 

Gathering  incense  as  they  pass 
To  offer  to  the  throned  sun; 
The  trembling  secret  to  be  won 

From  every  running  stream ;  all  these 

Are  his,  yet  force  him,  silent,  to  his  knees. 

The  watcher  shall  possess  the  earth 
In  silence,  leaping  to  control 

In  moments  mighty  with  the  birth 
Of  passion,  when  the  eternal  soul 
Shall  wholly  bind  him  to  the  whole. 

The  air,  the  sky,  the  winds,  the  rose, 

Are  his;  the  earth,  and  God  Himself  he  knows, 

To  H.  F.  L. 


SHORTER  POEMS 


XV 

A  LARK  flew  by  upon  the  air 
And  struck  a  red  leaf  from  the  tree, 
There  where  he  lighted;  and  a  pair 
Of  robins  bore  him  company. 
And  I,  I  looked  across  the  lea, 
Across  the  autumn  uplands  bare, 
Then  turned  again  and  saw  him  sitting  there. 

Thy  life  is  mine,  thou  meadow-lark ; 

Within  thy  golden  breast  I  feel 
My  own  heart  beating,  and  I  hark 

And  hear  thy  voice  upon  me  steal, 

Winning  my  own;  and  past  repeal 
I  give  myself  to  thee  and  mark 
These  few  words  here  upon  this  maple's  bark ; 

That  "  I  am  Thou  and  Thou  art  I;  " 
Cutting  it  deep  that  it  may  show 

To  future  years  ;  and,  by  and  by, 
When,  as  the  tree  shall  lofty  grow, 
The  woodman  comes  to  lay  it  low, 

This  word  shall  stand  before  his  eye, 

That  "  I  am  Thou,"  writ  clear, "  and  Thou  art  V 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


XVI 

THIS  is  thy  brother,  this  poor  silver  fish, 
Close  to  the  surface,  dying  in  his  dish ; 
Thy  flesh,  thy  beating  heart,  thy  very  life ; 
All  this,  I  say,  art  thou,  against  thy  wish. 

Thou  mayst  not  turn  away,  thou  shalt  allow 
The  truth,  nor  shalt  thou  dare  to  question  how : 
There  is  but  one  great  heart  in  nature  beating, 
And  this  is  thy  heart,  this,  I  say,  art  thou. 

In  all  thy  power  and  all  thy  pettiness, 
With  this  and  that  poor  selfish  purpose,  this 
And  that  high-climbing  fancy,  and  a  heart 
Caught  into  heaven  or  cast  in  the  abyss, 

Thou  art  the  same  with  all  the  little  earth, 
A  little  part ;  and  sympathy  of  birth 

Shall  tell  thee,  and  thine  openness  of  soul, 
What  fear  is  death  and  what  a  life  is  worth. 


16 


SHORTER  POEMS 

XVII 

FAR  in  the  south  the  redwings  hear  and  speed 
To  answer  nature's  far-heard  northern  cry ; 
Swift  from  the  fields  they  gather  and  take  on 
The  burden  of  a  journey  ;  young  and  old 
Swing  upward  to  the  sun  as  if  the  need 
Of  earth  and  of  her  comfort  were  gone  by. 
And  guided  by  the  star  of  memory  run 
Upon  the  trembling  air ;  if,  losing  hold, 
With  weary  wing  one  settle  to  the  land ; 
If,  sideways  glancing  from  the  flight,  one  see 
A  fairer  light  than  hope,  or  faltering 
Another  answer  to  the  white  command 
Hurled  upward  from  the  gun  :  yet  joyfully 
The  happy  flight  speeds  onward  with  the  spring. 

XVIII 

THOU  little  god  within  the  brook 
That  dwellest,  friend  of  man, 
I  oft  have  heard  the  simple  prayer 
Thou  tellest  unto  Pan  : 

That  he  who  comes  with  rod  and  line 

And  robs  thy  life  to-day, 
May  yet  by  the  great  god  be  taught 

To  come  some  other  way. 

17 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


XIX 

WHERE  man  has  conquered  nature  dies; 
We  shift  some  slender-growing  pine 
From  out  her  own  familiar  skies 

Where-under  forests  fall  and  rise, 

To  pots  and  gardens,  then  repine 
That  where  man  conquers  nature  dies. 

The  atmosphere  that  round  her  lies 

Bears  not  the  light  that  used  to  shine 
From  out  her  own  familiar  skies, 

She  is  a  stranger.    So  our  eyes 

Run  o'er  the  world  and  seek  a  sign ! 
If  where  man  conquers  nature  dies 

What  is  our  earthly  paradise  ? 

Will  nature  there  withhold  the  wine 
That  from  her  own  familiar  skies 

She  used  to  pour  ?  Do  we  devise 

A  garden  earth  and  say,  in  fine, 
Where  man  has  conquered  nature  dies 
From  out  her  own  familiar  skies  ? 


18 


SHORTER  POEMS 


XX 

THE  breath  of  slowly-moving  spring 
Stirs  the  light  leaf,  the  doubtful  wing, 
And  tempers  each  created  thing. 

The  tumult  of  the  summer's  life 
Surrounds  the  earth  and,  rich  and  rife, 
Finds  outlet  in  a  world  of  strife. 

The  autumn  season  stills  the  plain, 
Quiets  the  river,  sifts  the  grain, 
And  looks  to  rest  and  sleep  again. 

In  winter  does  great  nature  rest 

Or  die,  dismissing  every  guest 

And  closing  up  the  broad  earth's  breast. 

XXI 

OMETHING  in  the  sense  of  morning 
Lifts  the  heart  up  to  the  sun." 
In  our  youth  we  may  be  pagan, 
God  is  many,  and  the  One 
Great  Supreme  will  wait  till  evening 
When  our  little  day  is  done : 
Something  in  the  sense  of  morning 
Lifts  the  heart  up  to  the  sun ! 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


XXII 

THE  road  ran  sloping  through  the  trees 
Below  the  dusty  hill ; 
The  sun,  swept  inward  by  the  breeze, 
Lightened  the  running  rill. 

Maples  and  chestnuts  stood  along 

And  autumn,  at  the  prime, 
Strewed  nuts  and  leafage  that  belong 

To  this  September  time. 

One  tree  was  green  beside  the  way, 
A  small  white  pine,  I  thought ; 

And  there  a  broken  branch  and  gray 
Within  a  fork  had  caught. 

It  showed  unlovely  on  the  tree 

As  dark  and  dead  it  lay; 
"  And  in  my  spleen  I  smiled  "  to  see 

That  symbol  of  decay. 

But  my  companion  did  not  show 

Such  sympathy  as  mine ! 
He  mounted  up  the  tree,  to  throw 

Its  burden  from  the  pine. 


20 


SHORTER  POEMS 

I  cried,  "Why  will  you  not  believe 

That  nature's  ways  suffice 
To  nature's  purposes  and  leave 

Her  to  her  own  device  ? 

"  She  knows  her  purpose  for  the  pine 

And  does  not  need  the  aid 
Of  wisdom  such  as  yours  and  mine 

In  plans  which  she  has  made." 

He  cast  it  down  and  answered, "Why, 

Ev'n  as  I  am  a  man, 
In  doing  this,  believe  me,  I 

Am  part  of  nature's  plan  !  " 

I  smiled  again  but  not  in  joy, 

In  fear  ;  for  where  it  lay, 
The  branches  covered,  to  destroy, 

A  purple  aster  spray  ! 

My  friend  was  pleased  ;  not  he  divined 
That  though  he  was  a  man, 

To  be  content  we  must  be  blind ; 
For  such  is  nature's  plan. 


21 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


XXIII 

I  STOOD  at  the  hedge  as  a  hearse  went  by 
And  passed  me  along  the  way; 
The  sun  broke  in  through  a  silver  sky 
And  scattered  a  golden  ray. 

Should  I  offer  a  prayer  for  the  passing  dead, 

For  the  hearts  going  burdened  by; 
With  a  human  pity,  a  catholic  dread 

Of  the  tear,  the  sorrow,  and  sigh  ? 

I  too  knew  grief  and  the  burdened  heart, 
Some  knowledge  of  pain  was  mine  ; 

Should  I  bow  my  head  for  another's  smart, 
Should  I  make  this  simple  sign  ? 

So  I  wondered  and  thought  as  the  hearse  went  by 

With  its  poor  dead  corpse  within  ; 
But  I  turned  aside  to  the  opening  sky  — 

"  Such  a  feeling  may  once  have  been, 

"  But  now"  —  for  the  impulse  was  gone,  you  see, 

And  death  was  no  longer  new ; 
"  Like  a  fallen  leaf  from  an  autumn  tree 

He  is  dead  ;  what  is  else  to  do  ?  " 


22 


SHORTER  POEMS 


And  there  on  the  path  as  I  turned  around, 

By  the  side  of  a  thorn-tree  root 
An  earthworm  lay,  crushed  into  the  ground 

By  the  heel  of  a  passing  boot. 

Well,  death  and  death  ;   't  is  an  equal  term 
For  the  worm  and  the  man  to-day ; 

But  I  turned  and  buried  the  angle-worm 
In  a  neighboring  lump  of  clay. 

XXIV 

THE  scream  of  the  tern  in  the  roar  of  the 
waters 

Will  sound  when  the  tumult  of  nature  is  o'er ; 
When   the    garden   of   earth   is   a   home   for   the 

daughters 
Of  Eve,  and  when  Pan  is  remembered  no  more. 

White-winged,  he  appears  !    Dark,  erratic,  uneven, 
A  figure  on  earth  of  the  stars  in  the  sky ; 

Of  high  disarray  and  disorder  in  heaven, 

Where  the  Galaxy  strikes  with  dismay  on  the 
eye! 


23 


FIRST  POEMS  &•  FRAGMENTS 

Where  freak  and  caprice  build  a  wild  conflagration, 
Where  Chaos  is  king  over  torrents  of  stars ; 

Who  scatters  the  earth  in  a  blind  indignation, 
And  systems  are  sped  in  interminate  wars. 

Then  the  children  of  Pan  in  that  day  will  come 
singing, 

In  fierceness,  of  him  who  has  set  in  the  spheres 
Dismay ;  and  along  the  salt  sea-limits  ringing, 

The  scream  of  the  tern  striking  wild  on  their  ears. 

XXV 

LIKE  a  dead  leaf  that  rolls  along  the  ground, 
Driven  by  a  wind  that  wanders  round  and  round, 
I  see  my  heart,  with  edges  cut  and  curled, 
Like  a  dead  leaf  that 's  driven  without  a  sound. 

Green  faded  into  red,  and  red  to  brown ; 
Life  to  decay,  and  death  the  latest  crown  ! 

So  is  my  life,  and  lacks  the  heart  of  power 
Here  to  lift  up  the  god  that 's  fallen  down. 

Alas  !   why,  in  the  days  of  mighty  Jah, 
Did  I  pull  down  thy  pillars,  Asherah  ? 

Baal,  where  art  thou  ?     Egypt,  even  thou 
Hadst  faith  for  me  beneath  the  wings  of  Ptah  ! 

24 


SHORTER  POEMS 


XXVI 

ADAM  arose  at  the  word  of  God, 
Up-borne  on  the  bosom  of  all  the  earth  ; 
Brother  of  trees  and  the  black,  prone  sod  ; 
The  same  in  death  and  the  same  in  birth. 

Is  it  divine,  the  mystery  ? 

Is  the  whisper  true  of  the  hidden  word 
That  sounds  for  some  in  hill  and  sea, 

In  the  lapse  of  life  when  the  deeps  are  heard  ? 

The  sunlight  lifts  in  the  soul  of  man 
The  white-light  torch  of  another  dawn  ; 

And  love  will  finger  a  mystic  span, 
When  the  chords  are  drawn. 


XXVII 

IN  long,  slow  silences  of  soul 
Beneath  the  sunset  on  the  sea 
I  think  I  hear  the  numbers  roll 
That  tell  my  conquest  over  thee ; 

When  thou  art  gentle  and  serene, 
Thyself,  forgotten  all  thy  pride  ; 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


And  I,  myself  as  I  have  been, 
A  hero  with  his  sword  untried, 

Able  for  mastery ;  and  the  game 
Is  offered  and  the  action  up ; 

And  to  my  purpose  true  I  claim 

A  hot  draught  from  the  stirrup-cup, 

Then  entertain  thee.    All  my  soul 
Awakes  upon  the  sunset  sea 

When  high  and  clear  the  numbers  roll 
That  tell  my  conquest  over  thee. 

XXVIII 

IF  ever  I  have  thought  or  said 
In  all  the  seasons  of  the  past 
One  word  at  which  thy  heart  has  bled 
Believe  me,  it  will  be  the  last. 

The  tides  of  life  are  deep  and  wide, 
The  currents  swift  to  bear  apart 

E'en  kindred  ships  ;  but  from  thy  side 
I  pray  my  sail  may  never  start. 

If,  in  the  turning  day  and  night 

Of  this  our  earth,  our  little  year, 
26 


SHORTER  POEMS 


Thou  shalt  have  lost  me  from  thy  sight 
Across  the  checkered  spaces  drear, 

Thy  words  are  uttered ;  and  the  mind 
Accustomed,  cannot  all  forget ; 

While  written  in  my  heart  I  find 
An  impulse  that  is  deeper  yet. 

We  love  but  never  know  the  things, 
To  value  them,  that  nearest  stand. 

The  heart  that  travels  seaward  brings 
The  dearest  treasure  home  to  land. 
To  M.  J.  S. 


LONGER  POEMS 
I -VII 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  MOUNTAIN 


ESTMORELAND  and  the  hills  of  Cum- 

berland, 

Though  Alps  may  overpeer  them,  have  a  name 
Unperishing  while  the  earth  still  bears  in  man 
The  blossom  of  a  high-aspiring  mind  ; 
For  Wordsworth  loved    them.     And  the    sacred 

poet 

Helvetia  lacks  not,  nor  old-age  Japan, 
A  poet  whose  song  above  the  fields  of  tea, 
Above  the  temples  to  the  figured  god 
Ancient  in  beauty  set  against  the  ascent, 
Rises  supreme  to  where  above  them  all 
Uplifts  a  hollow  summit  white  with  snow 
Pale  Fuji-san,  and  there  in  music  builds 
A  temple  sheer  in  beauty  to  the  sky  ! 
No  outland  peaks  I  know  ;  but  were  I  born 
Among  the  lakes,  or  in  the  fields  of  Kai 
No  other  were  the  song's  essential  heart 
Upon  the  mountains  that  I  then  should  sing  ; 
For  once  I  saw  a  summit  not  so  bright 
As  these  are  fabled,  mounting  to  the  sky 
In  scar  and  ice-cliff  loftily  supreme, 
But  such  a  mountain  as  New  England  knows  j 
And  never  since  in  moments  when  the  press 


FIRST  POEMS  Sr  FRAGMENTS 


Of  life  has  lifted  has  the  mountain's  touch  — 
Joy,  merely  joy  and  beauty,  that  is  all, 
And  passionate  love  and  depth  and  mystery  — 
Left  me !  and  thus  I  sing  a  native  song, 
Content  to  be  a  brother  to  Japan, 
Cousin  to  Switzerland,  believing  true 
That  ere  he  wanders  by  Castalian  springs 
The  poet  first  must  drink  the  wells  of  home. 


II 


NEAR  THE  WHITE  LEDGE, 
SANDWICH,  N.  H. 

I  FOLLOWED  up  a  little  burn, 
Led  onward  by  the  smell  of  fern  ; 
And  standing  at  the  opening  day 
Where  yellow  blossoms  line  the  way 
I  catch,  blown  faintly  on  the  air, 
The  whispered  perfume  of  the  rare, 
Pale  morning-primrose,  wet  and  fair  ! 
The  bobolink  stands  on  the  grass 
Now  ere  the  deep  July  shall  pass 
And  greets  me  from  the  bennets  tall  j 
I  hear  a  distant  thrush's  call 
Rise  full  and  deep,  then  silent  fall. 


LONGER  POEMS 


Spirit  of  Wordsworth,  with  me  still 

Upon  the  plain,  upon  the  hill, 

I  find  my  purpose  wholly  bent 

To  be  to-day  thine  instrument ; 

Led  upward  to  the  thought  of  thee 

By  all  the  spreading  world  I  see. 

The  broad  lake  country  at  my  feet 

Bids  Asquam  with  Wynander  greet, 

Rydal  with  Ossipee  ;  and  shows 

The  Bearcamp  water  where  it  flows 

Another  Rotha,  stream  and  break, 

From  covert  pond  to  glittering  lake ; 

While  Grasmere  lies  serene  and  still 

By  yonder  tarn  beneath  Red  Hill. 

Thy  mountains,  Wordsworth,  too,  are  by 

And  paint  their  shadows  on  the  sky. 

Chocorua  stands,  but  not  alone, 

For  out  across  the  scene  is  thrown 

The  memory  of  Helvellyn  ;  hid 

Within  thy  folds,  Tripyramid, 

Are  thoughts  of  Kirkstone,  Fairfield,  all 

That  heard  Joanna's  laughing  call ! 

Whiteface  is  vanished  in  the  shade 

By  Scawfell  and  Blencathra  made ; 

While  Sandwich  Mountain  at  the  west, 

In  Glaramara's  shadow  dressed, 

Leads  the  high  path  toward  Campton  ways 

33 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


Across  a  steeper  Dunmail  Raise  ! 
Lake,  hill,  and  mountain,  all  are  bright 
With  the  first  gift  of  morning  light ; 
The  sun  is  on  them  and  the  dew, 
Shining  far  down  and  glittering  through 
The  wide,  white  fields  of  mountain  air 
High  o'er  the  valleys  everywhere. 
And  Wordsworth,  in  the  auxiliar  flame 
That  trembles  on  them  from  thy  name 
They  bear  in  all  their  company 
Aloft,  the  living  thought  of  thee. 

The  Quaker  poet  sang  his  song 

And  loved  the  world  these  scenes  among ; 

A  sober  man,  a  song,  I  think 

Not  like  the  wanton  bobolink  ! 

It  was  an  utterance  sweet  like  those 

Light  raptures  of  the  song-sparrows  ; 

It  ne'er  attained  the  impetuous  rush 

And  music  of  the  full-voiced  thrush  ; 

Whose  song,  O  Wordsworth,  like  to  thine 

In  joy  long-thought  and  measured  fine, 

Is  priestly  in  the  praise  of  Pan  Divine. 


34 


LONGER  POEMS 

III 
"I  LEFT  THE  CITY" 

TLEFT  the  city  to  the  north  and  walked 
A  Against  a  southwest  wind  ;  the  hurtling  rain 
Showered  the  empty  streets  in  noisy  gusts, 
Swept  little  footsteps  down  across  the  walls, 
And  on  the  wind  came  tossing  through  the  trees. 
The  gusty  city  was  not  long  to  leave, 
And  underneath  the  open  heaven  I  found 
Breath  and  a  beating  wind,  a  hurrying  sky 
Of  gray  cloud  under  white,  a  world  of  rain, 
And  one  long  roadway  southward  under  it, 
A  causey  on  the  marsh,  where  on  the  left 
A  broad  reach  of  the  tide  lay  full,  with  salt 
Red  grasses  bounded.     Swinging  to  the  west 
The  long,  dark  wind  came  streaming,  while  the  rain 
Sloped  with  the  wind  and  swept  into  my  face ; 
And  I  rejoiced,  exulted  in  my  heart, 
Taking  a  grim  delight  as  I  suppressed 
Each  motion  that  betrayed  me  to  the  rain, 
And  drew  my  mantle  closer.     Rank  on  rank 
The  rain  came  on ;  the  landscape,  wetted  o'er, 
Lay  passive,  bay  and  bogland,  to  the  sky  ; 
The  wind  beat  hard,  and  I  through  a  long  hour 
Had  stood  rejoicing  in  the  unwonted  storm, 

35 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


When  two  small  figures  hurrying  through  the  rain 
Came  down  the  pathway  from   the   town ;  they 

laughed, 

Two  rascal  boys  set  free  from  school  and  mother, 
And  laid  small  schemes  for  catching  smaller  fish, 
Clambered  across  the  roadway  fence  and  followed 
Through  the  salt  grasses  to  the  reedy  shore ; 
I  saw  them  standing,  careful  of  their  lines 
And  peering  o'er  the  bankside,  plotting  deep 
With  one  desire  in  earnest  in  their  minds 
And  filling  them  ;  while  I,  the  idler  there, 
Leaned  on  the  rail  to  watch  them  and  the  bay, 
Gave  up  the  hope  I  harbored  of  the  west 
And  sunset,  for  the  hour  was  drawing  near, 
Content  to  take  my  pleasure  in  the  rain. 
The  sky  had  darkened  in  the  hour  and  drew 
A  cloak  of  gray  cloud  closer  to  the  earth  ; 
Sudden  as  half  aware  I  watched  the  scene 
A  sense  of  saffron  in  the  western  sky 
Grew  over  me  ;  the  heavens  were  lifted  high 
And  broke  before  my  eyes ;  along  the  west 
Great  masses  of  the  storm  swept  to  the  north, 
Went  swarming  eastward  in  the  southern  sky  ; 
The  evening  earth  grew  black  beneath  the  light 
That  broke  through  western    clouds,  that  caught 

the  rain 
In  brightness  as  it  lay  in  shining  pools, 

36 


LONGER  POEMS 


And  sprang  from  wet  walls  and  from  dripping  roofs. 
There  midst  the  white  light  and  the  golden  edges 
Of  happy  clouds  just  opening  to  the  earth, 
Bluer  than  painted  blue  was  ever  painted, 
I  saw  the    sky  and  prayed  —  prayed  ?    prayed  to 

whom  ? 

God,  God  !  I  cried,  but  what  I  meant  I  knew  not. 
This  was  the  perfect  beauty,  this  was  joy 
Supreme,  redundant ;  ah  !  no  longer  men 
Seek  heaven  in  Beatrice  ;  this  was  heaven  displayed 
To  the  broad,  fertile  earth  and  yet  I  prayed  not. 
'T  was  like  a  gray  thought  broken  by  the  wind 
Of  promise  and  the  sun's  fulfilment ;  scattered 
To  north  and  south,  with  routed  columns  flying, 
Majestic  rain  in  grand  procession  moved 
Across  the  saffron  fading  western  sky, 
Cloud  upon  massive  cloud-shape  trailing  low 
Over  the  sunset  earth ;  while  in  my  eyes 
I  caught  the  cool,  white,  crystal  light  of  heaven 
That  glistens  after  rain,  and  that  one  grace 
Supreme  that  God  has  granted  pagan  man, 
The  bright  blue  sky. 


37 


FIRST  POEMS  Sr  FRAGMENTS 

IV 
THE  SONG-SPARROW 

AT  rest  upon  some  quiet  limb 
And  singing  to  his  pretty  "  marrow," 
Sweet-breasted  friend  of  child  and  man, 
I  love  the  bright  eyes  and  the  tan, 
Gray-mottled  coat  that  suits  the  trim 
And  winsome  singing-sparrow. 

He  seeks  no  dear  and  lofty  ground  ; 
His  home  is  every  ridge  and  furrow ; 
In  the  low  alder  bushes  he  's 
At  home,  and  in  the  wayside  trees  ; 
Wherever  man  lives  I  have  found 
The  nest  of  the  song-sparrow, 

Except  among  the  chimney-tops 

A-smoking  where  the  streets  are  narrow ; 
Where  man  has  banished  living  green 
And  scarce  a  blade  of  grass  is  seen 
He  rarely  comes,  he  never  stops, 
The  little  rustic  sparrow. 

Where  twigs  are  small  and  branches  low 
And  scarce  the  name  of  woods  can  borrow, 

38 


LONGER  POEMS 

He  flits  and  sings  the  whole  day  long 
And  "  Rivers  run,"  is  still  his  song, 
u  And  flowers  blossom,  breezes  blow, 
And  all  for  the  song-sparrow  !  " 

I  meet  him  in  the  tufted  field 

Among  the  clover-tops  and  yarrow ; 
I  hear  him  by  the  quiet  brook, 
And  always  with  the  open  look 
Of  one  who  would  not  be  concealed  ; 
And  then  I  meet  the  sparrow 

When  golden  lights  at  evening  run 

Among  the  trees  the  copses  thorough ; 
And  there  I  catch  his  joyous  song, 
Stealing  the  moments  that  belong 
To  songsters  of  the  setting  sun 
And  not  to  the  song-sparrow. 

When  touches  of  the  coming  night 
Set  free  the  bands  of  hidden  sorrow 

The  night-bird  sounds  his  ringing  note, 
And  from  his  melancholy  throat 
The  hermit  pours  a  sad  delight, 
And  no  one  hears  the  sparrow. 

His  song  is  tuned  for  his  to-day, 

With  hope  and  promise  for  the  morrow ; 

39 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 

More  lofty  notes  are  upward  sent, 
But  none  more  simple  and  content, 
None  cheerfuller  in  work  and  play 
Than  that  of  the  song-sparrow. 

V 
IN  CHERRY  LANE 

A  LITTLE  maiden,  in  her  hand 
A  pitcher,  on  her  head  a  band 
Of  yellow  cloth  ;  her  neck  was  bare, 
The  kerchief  fluttered  in  the  air ; 
The  loose-stuff  gown  all  straitly  hung 
And  as  she  went  about  her  clung ; 
Her  bosom  showed  beneath  the  dress 
Young  and  unconscious,  and  a  tress 
Now  here,  now  there,  crept  out  beneath 
The  band,  as  from  the  opening  sheath 
The  tasselled  spring ;  a  slender  maid, 
She  walked  in  childhood  unafraid. 

That  such  a  slip  of  womanhood 
Should  blossom  in  a  lane  so  rude, 
That  one  in  that  low,  sodden  place 
Should  smile  with  such  a  winning  grace 

40 


LONGER  POEMS 

A  marvel  is  unto  the  last ! 
I  seemed  to  see,  even  as  she  passed 
The  summer  following  on  the  spring ; 
Hot,  fetid  days  that  ever  bring 
The  noisome  vapors  up  about 
The  meadow  blossom  in  a  rout ; 
Till  in  the  passing  of  the  days 
The  stem  was  bent,  the  shining  face 
Stooped  down  and  met  the  marshy  soil 
And  soon  was  gone.     But  in  my  heart 
Even  at  the  fancy  I  recoil ; 
I  will  not  give  her  such  a  part. 
Her  eye  was  bright,  her  step  was  free, 
And  as  I  looked  I  seemed  to  see 
The  quick  blood  flow,  the  softer  skin 
Below  the  throat,  beneath  the  chin, 
The  quick,  young  beating  of  the  heart, 
And  on  her  face  the  blushes  start ! 
Even  as  she  came  so  let  her  go, 
Whither  or  whence  I  cannot  know. 
I  only  know  if  in  that  lane 
I  ever  chance  to  pass  again, 
The  memory  of  that  maiden  fair 
Will  lend  a  fragrance  to  the  air 
And  make  the  place,  not  over  sweet, 
Not  wholly  evil  to  my  feet. 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 

VI 
WOODSTOCK 

THIS,  Woodstock,  is  my  gift;  and  if  I  give 
So  much  as  this  of  all  thou  gavest  me, 
Call  me  not  selfish  if  I  have  forgot 
Thy  daily  life. 

THE  STREAMS 

OFT  have  my  footsteps  in  the  past  been  turned, 
Woodstock,  to  seek  in  solitude  the  life 
That  flows  within  thy  brotherhood  of  streams  ; 
In  Moosilauke  the  slender,  in  the  blue 
Pemigewasset,  and  the  silver  East. 
Now  once  again  —  and  in  what  other  scenes  !  — 
Thy  voices  come  to  me,  thy  life,  across 
The  silver  indistinctness  of  a  year  ; 
And  first,  O  Moosilauke,  I  turn  to  thee, 
Born  of  the  mighty  mountain  and  its  caves 
Dark,  and  its  forests  and  its  long  ravines. 
A  multitude  of  slender  waters  run 
From  off  the  sloping  hills,  from  beds  of  moss 
Beneath  a  hundred  oaks,  from  little  stones 
Tumbled  along  before  thy  April  strength, 

42 


LONGER  POEMS 


Now  lying  quiet,  making  thee  a  bed  ; 

From  sandy  sources  in  the  tufted  fields 

Where  cattle  browse,  and  from  a  thousand  springs 

Where  I  was  never  led  thy  waters  come, 

Thy  blue  and  silver  slender  stream.    The  sky 

Bends  over  thee  more  closely,  and  there  falls 

A  richer  gift  of  azure  through  the  trees 

Upon  thy  waters,  making  thee  a  brook 

Of  blue  and  silver,  Moosilauke  ;  and  thou, 

Fulfilled  of  beauty  in  thyself  and  round 

Encompassed  all  about  with  loveliness, 

Art  richer  than  thy  brothers  in  the  gift 

Of  quietness  and  tender  solitude  ; 

Friend  of  the  green  upon  thy  banks,  thou  'rt  loved 

More  dearly  by  the  white  and  purple  flowers, 

More  dearly  loved  if  loving  be  the  act 

Of  neighborhood  and  presence  ;  and  as  I 

Do  love  the  neighborhood  of  green  and  blue, 

The  forest  and  the  sky  ;  the  silver  love 

That  glistens  in  the  stream,  and  that  low  light 

That  passes  from  the  faces  of  the  flowers  ; 

So  by  this  promise  and  confession  I 

Do  love  thee,  Moosilauke. 

And  thee  I  love, 

Pure  in  thy  beauty,  perfect  in  thy  strength, 
Pemigewasset,  lying  in  thy  source 
Beneath  the  brow  of  the  great  Profile  !     Far 

43 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


Above  thee  is  the  stern,  sad  Mountain  King, 
Him  with  the  mighty  message  that  no  man 
Can  wholly  hear  :  the  sternness  and  the  sadness 
Of  nature  conscious  of  herself,  or  man 
Conscious  of  nature,  ignorant  of  God. 
This  is  the  burden  of  that  noble  brow ; 
And  thou  to  me  didst  give  along  thy  way 
Suggestions  of  this  message  till  below, 
Surrounded  by  the  world,  thou  dost  forget 
Thy  birth  and  I  with  thee  forgot.    One  day 
I  wandered  from  thy  course  beside  a  run 
Of  darker  waters  ;  turning  from  the  track 
Of  wheels  and  from  the  multitude  of  men 
Along  thy  fertile  way,  to  seek  thy  stream, 
Thou  dark-veined  Began,  tributary  brook. 
Thy  waters  run  and  bear  a  deeper  song 
Soft  on  the  moss,  and  in  my  heart  I  love 
The  memory  of  that  hour  wherein  I  stayed 
My  life  a  little  while  with  thee  ;  my  heart 
Was  opened  to  thee  in  a  deep  unrest, 
And  to  the  motion  of  thy  currents  all 
My  thoughts  ran  freely  ;  't  was  a  joy  to  hear, 
'T  was  rest  and  satisfaction  to  behold 
Thy  voice  and  colors  and  thy  forms ;  I  took 
A  comfort  in  thy  presence,  tuned  to  hear 
A  voice  in  thee  repeated  from  my  own 
And  yet  not  wholly  mine  ;  but  more,  to  live 

44 


LONGER  POEMS 

And  run  harmonious  with  my  hand  in  thine, 

And  in  the  gentle  beating  of  thy  life 

Find  my  own  poise  and  balance  j  wrapt  about 

As  in  a  mist  of  music  and  led  on 

To  live  and  feel  as  prodigal  as  thou, 

Careless  of  all  degrees. 

And  now  with  strength  and  joy  I  turn  to  thee 
Thundering  in  thy  caverns,  noble  East, 
Born  of  the  midmost  of  the  mountains,  child 
More  truly  than  the  Saco  of  the  heart 
And  spirit  of  the  hills.    The  powers  prevail 
Through  all  the  mountains  that  shall  give  thee  life  ; 
Thy  birth  is  now  upon  a  thousand  peaks 
And  has  been  and  shall  be ;  thou  art  a  giant, 
Impatient  of  the  earth  that  holds  thee,  wild  ! 
And  thus  thy  voice  is  stranger  to  me,  thus 
It  sounds  a  note  I  cannot  always  hear, 
Not  in  all  moods  ;  but  sometimes,  low  at  first, 
Above  the  unsensed  tumult  of  the  world 
I  hear  the  rushing  of  thy  waters,  catch 
The  silver  flash  of  sunlight  from  thy  rocks, 
Then  in  my  heart  feel  thy  great  spirit  moving. 
Thou  art  the  friend,  not  of  the  earth  —  the  rocks 
Surround  thee  and  control  thy  dreadful  course  — 
But  of  the  mountain  winds;  the  winds  pass  o'er  thee 
And  catch  thy  motion  and  thy  eager  voice ; 

45 


FIRST  POEMS  Sr  FRAGMENTS 

Thus  tempered  they  pass  onward  and  below 
They  whisper  to  the  listening  ear  of  man. 
Or  in  thy  solitudes  perchance  he  hears 
A  choral  voice,  thy  music  and  the  wind, 
Joined  always,  breathing  to  the  same  intent, 
A  brother  voice,  an  echo  of  his  own. 
There  if  he  listen,  down  below  the  sound 
He  hears  the  voice  articulate  of  life 
Made  manifest  his  own ;  he  hears  his  voice 
Dim-speaking  to  him  through  the  gulf  of  change 
Another  form,  a  myriad  others,  but 
Ever  his  own  beseeching  to  be  heard 
In  sympathy.    Wise  in  my  purpose  I, 
Nor  I  alone  give,  noble  East,  to  thee 
My  hand  ;  for  thou  art  brother  to  the  wind, 
And  savage  as  thou  art,  child  of  the  peaks, 
Clad  white  in  rocks  and  thine  own  silver  form, 
Thou  dost  not  find  thy  rest  upon  the  earth 
But  goest  dissatisfied  unto  the  sea 
Where  thou  again  art  wild. 
To  J.  T.  S. 


LONGER  POEMS 


THE  HEDGEROW 

THE  sun  is  up,  Great  God,  the  sun  is  up, 
High  o'er  the  eastern  hill  among  white  clouds 
Insufferable  !   I  thank  Thee  for  the  call. 
Deep  in  the  Woodstock  meadows  on  a  morn 
Pleasant  it  is  to  wander  ere  the  sun 
Has  burned  the  dewdrops  off  the  bending  grass ; 
When  each  small  area  seems  a  world  complete, 
When  every  forest  stem  beneath  the  sun 
Shoots  out  a  light,  and  every  meadow  span 
Is  dowered  with  moving  radiance  ;  and  the  hills  ! 
I  had  not  known  their  power  till  I  had  seen, 
Limned  by  the  early  morn,  their  mystic  heads 
White  in  the  eastern  circuit.    From  the  town 
The  path  led  out  across  the  dew-wet  lands, 
Crossed  the  cold  river  in  the  river-mist, 
And  turned  aside  before  the  columned  elms, 
Heavy  with  morning  light ;  three  things  remain 
In  joy,  of  all  the  pleasant  things  I  saw 
Along  this  early  path  :   the  glowing  elms, 
Far  off,  the  line  of  hills,  and  suddenly 
(That  rose  abrupt  and  claimed  its  character) 
A  straight  and  tangled  row  of  heavy  green, 
A  hedge,  till  then  unguessed,  where  loftier  trees 
Stood  up  amid  a  world  of  clustering  things, 
Brambles  and  slender  vines  and,  stiffly  held, 

47 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


The  heads  of  little,  sturdy,  hopeful  trees. 

Along  one  maple  branch  some  colder  wisp 

Of  passing  wind  had  struck  an  early  blow 

And  pressed  the  green  life  back ;  the  kindlier  airs 

Had  after  gathered  round  and  now  caressed 

The  broken  hope  into  a  golden  death. 

This  was  a  passing  fancy,  but  the  elms 

Are  living  elms  and  must  forever  live, 

Rich  in  the  willing  burden  of  that  morn ; 

I  never  see  beneath  the  golden  mist 

Of  peaceful  afternoon,  or  in  the  time 

Of  open  daylight  such  an  upland  slope 

Without  the  gentle  coming  of  this  one, 

This  morning  picture  and  the  further  thought 

Of  all  the  hidden  chambers  whence  are  drawn 

The  veils,  lights,  shadows,  colors  of  the  world 

That  spread  across  the  poorest  piece  of  ground 

To  form  and  to  transform ;  then  at  the  last 

I  saw  the  tangled  hedgerow  by  the  wall, 

My  mind  woke  to  a  fancy  and  at  once 

I  found  it  wandering  over  English  fields 

And  lodging  with  the  primrose  and  the  lark ; 

For  here  there  was  a  hedge  !    The  pioneer 

Had  built  his  roadside  wall  of  labored  stone, 

And  through  his  fields  had  led  this  simple  line 

Rough-set  of  rounded  rock,  to  part  his  herd 

Of  cattle  and  his  flock  (perhaps)  of  sheep, 


LONGER  POEMS 

What   time  they  browsed  in  Woodstock.     Early 

grass 

Had  pushed  a  carpet  in  among  the  stones 
And  here  the  scythe  had  stopped ;  chance-drifted 

dust, 

Holding  the  promise  and  the  hope  of  life, 
Seeds,  the  small  looms  of  nature's  garment,  here 
Found  an  untroubled  resting-place  and  ran 
Through  all  their  changes.     Years  passed  by  and 

here 

The  squirrel  found  a  harbor  and  a  home  j 
For  overhead  the  angled  beechnut  hung, 
And  hazels  stood  at  hand.     Here  in  the  spring 
The  gold  of  summer's  sunrise  —  dandelions  — 
And  daisies,  starry  oxeyes,  clustered  near  j 
The  earlier  violets  were  not  absent  nor 
In  later  days  the  modest,  showy  bell, 
Blue,  slender-hanging.    So  the  summers  passed, 
Rising  and  falling ;  as  his  homestead  grew 
The  farmer  mowed  more  widely,  nor  his  flocks 
Demanded  less  his  care  in  fold  and  field 
To  bound  ;  and  so  as  ever  each  day  more 
He  saw  the  need  for  labor,  this  one  wall, 
Now  old  and  overgrown,  he  eyed  with  pleasure  j 
The  stones  might  fall  away,  the  flooding  rains 
That  drove  the  stream  up  on  the  meadow-lands 
Might  roll  and  still  displace  them,  and  the  vines, 

49 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


The  wild  grape  and  the  bramble,  force  their  way 
Disintegrating,  still  no  care  was  his  ; 
For  over  all  the  green  was  gathered  close 
And  densely  massed,  so  that  no  glimpse  beyond 
Greeted  the  searching  eye ;  and  here  I  found 
The  hedgerow  standing  as  the  sun  had  shaped  it, 
Richly  confused  and  prodigal  and  wild, 
And  yet  a  straight,  well-guided  hedge  and  serving 
Its  master  better  than  he  served  himself, 
Adding  to  service  beauty  and  a  soul. 

SOLITUDE 

I  KNOW  a  little  patch  of  mountain  ground 
Low-settled  by  itself;  and  Moosilauke 
Stands  boldly  in  the  west  but  never  sees 
Its  little  group  of  buildings  and  the  elm 
Close  by  the  door.    And  farther  in  the  north, 
Bearing  his  sun-scarred  summit  proudly  forth, 
Stands  noble  Lafayette;  he  looks  abroad 
Across  the  sunny  hamlet  where  the  meadows 
Shine  with  a  softer  green,  yet  scarcely  knows 
This  low  gray  dwelling  and  beside  the  door 
Its  ancient  elm-tree ;  yet  do  Lafayette 
And  Moosilauke  the  mountain  and  the  deep, 
Aspiring  hills  feel  through  their  silent  hearts 

50 


LONGER  POEMS 


The  birth  and  progress,  Woodstock,  of  thy  streams, 
Born  of  the  mossy  mountains  and  the  rocks 
And  running  through  the  hills  ;  and  they  in  turn 
Do  visit  and  confirm  the  house  in  joy. 
Gray  with  the  touch  of  nature,  friend  familiar 
Of  forests  and  their  mosses,  with  its  roofs 
Long-sloping  to  the  west,  I  see  it  stand, 
With  gables  not  uncopied  from  the  hills, 
The  mountain  house,  the  home  of  quietness. 
The  village  knew  it  not ;  beyond  the  hill 
It  was  itself  a  hamlet ;  here  there  stood 
Its  tributary  fields  and  pastures,  here 
A  crystal  source  of  water  and  a  world 
Of  timber,  and  its  flocks  were  on  the  hills. 
There  lay  the  little  graveyard  in  the  pines, 
And  these  with  larches  and  small  maples  made 
A  decent  graveyard  shadow ;  and  I  see 
One  queer,  untutored  apple  that  has  placed 
His  foot  beyond  the  pale,  dropping  his  fruit 
On  the  most  ancient  grave ;  all  round  about 
Are  golden  meadows  quiet  in  the  sun, 
With  ombrel  elm-trees  dotting  out  the  green. 

This  is  the  gate  to  Solitude ;  one  day 
I  crossed  the  yard  to  where  an  old  man  sat 
And  questioned  him,  although  I  knew  him  not, 
Brought  here  among  the  sources  of  the  hills 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


Close  to  the  thought  of  small  simplicity. 

I  asked  him,"  Where  is  Solitude  ?  "  He  rose, 

And  pointing  with  his  cane  across  the  ridge 

Described  a  course  that  drew  my  heart  in  joy  ; 

"  Beyond  the  sheepfold  follow  the  small  lane 

Across  the  first  low  ridge ;  the  cattle  there 

Are  mine  and  mine  the  pasture  to  the  wood ; 

The  lane  will  enter  through  the  trees  and  lead 

A  mile  or  more  over  and  up  the  slope, 

There  where  you  see  the  pines;  let  down  the  bars 

At  the  upper  end  and  that  is  Solitude." 

I  never  started  out  on  any  course 

With  half  the  joy  I  felt  for  Solitude  ! 

Rocks  in  the  pasture  lay,  oases  bare 

In  deserts  of  green  grass  !    I  moved  among 

The  beasts  and  stood  beside  them  where  they  drank 

The  stony  pasture  stream,  where  little  grass 

Crept  thickly  down  the  bank  beside  the  shallows. 

I  wet  my  lips  ;  't  is  like  a  sacrament 

To  touch  wild  water  where  the  cattle  drink  ; 

And  more,  I  guessed  it  came  from  Solitude. 

Then  at  the  entrance  of  the  trees  I  stood, 

Ground  the  hard  earth  beneath  my  foot,  and  sent 

A  proud  glance  northward  ;  he  who  thus  can  stand 

On  Moosilauke  and  look  on  Lafayette 

Is  master  of  the  western  hills  ;  below, 

Beyond  the  trees  and  pasture  lay  the  valley 

52 


LONGER  POEMS 

Voiceless  and  crowded  by  the  mountains  round 
In  multitude  so  great  I  turned  and  fled 
Up  the  long,  turning  footway  of  the  lane. 
Ah,  silence  in  the  forest !    I  have  learned 
More  from  the  hush  of  forests  than  from  speech 
Of  many  teachers,  more  of  joy  at  least, 
And  that  quick  sympathy  where  joy  has  birth  ; 
A  thousand  times  called  outward  from  myself 
By  life  at  every  point,  ten  thousand  things 
Speaking  at  once  in  tones  so  sharp  and  sweet 
Their  voice  was  pain,  but  pain  as  life  is  pain 
Beneath  the  over-chorus  of  the  sky  ; 
In  silence  finding  joy  to  know  myself 
Deep  in  the  heart  of  nature  and  the  world. 
As  one  advances  up  the  slow  ascent 
Along  the  pathway  in  the  woods  the  trees 
Change  aspect,  nor  alone  in  this  but  change 
In  stature  and  in  power  till  Solitude 
Seems  cut  out  of  the  ancient  forest.    Here 
Was  Solitude  !  where  man  had  lived  of  old, 
Loved,  serving  God,  and  built  himself  a  home. 
Man  smooths  an  acre  on  the  rolling  earth, 
Turns  up  the  mould  and  reaps  the  gifts  of  God ; 
Plucks  down  the  apple  from  the  tree,  the  tree 
From  empire  in  the  forest,  builds  a  home ; 
Turns  for  a  bout  among  his  brothers,  wins 
A  sister  to  his  wife  and  gets  an  heir ; 

53 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


And  then  as  here  in  Solitude  departs 

And  leaves  small  mark  behind.    The  place  is  rare 

In  this  high  epic  of  the  human  life. 

Where  wildness  has  been  wilderness  shall  be, 

But  give  God  time ;  and  life  is  but  a  span, 

Nine  inches,  while  before  it  and  behind 

Stretches  the  garden  of  the  cosmic  gods ; 

For  after  London,  England  shall  be  wild 

And  none  can  thaw  the  iceberg  at  the  pole. 

In  Solitude  one  sees  the  winding  trace 

Of  what  has  been  a  road,  a  block  of  stone 

Footworn,  that  lies  along  the  dim  pathway 

Before  one  old  foundation ;  and  the  rest 

Is  freaks  of  grass  among  the  rising  growth 

Of  birch  and  maple  that  another  year 

Shall  see  almost  a  forest. 


VII 
PUTATIS  LUCUM  LIGNA 

YE  seem  intent  to  stand  alone 
Monarchs,  ye  men,  of  stock  and  stone; 
The  forest  dead  and  everywhere 
Untenanted  the  fields  of  air. 
To  view  a  wood  unwilling,  ye 


54 


LONGER  POEMS 


Who  for  the  timber  hate  the  tree  ! 
Will  ye  cast  nature  from  her  throne 
And  waste  the  earth  you  call  your  own  ? 
Descending  from  the  Lincoln  hills 
I  came  where  join  the  Woodstock  rills ; 
Across  the  east  a  smoky  veil 
Lets  not,  or  day  or  night,  to  trail 
Words  dire  in  meaning,  seen  before 
By  Dante  on  the  infernal  door  ! 
For  pant  of  engines  on  the  air 
Shatters  the  mountain  silence  where 
Five-throated,  bound  with  iron  bands, 
The  havoc  of  the  forest  stands  ! 

Where  man  has  conquered  nature  dies 
From  out  her  own  familiar  skies, 

And  nature  loves  her  child ; 
'  T  is  nature  loves  the  running  brooks, 
Not  man  but  nature  guards  the  nooks 

From  which  they  are  beguiled. 
Infinite  labor  gives  them  birth, 
The  rocks,  the  deeps  below  the  earth, 
And  dusky  shadows  bring  them  forth 

As  weak  as  they  are  wild. 
The  earth  will,  all  in  little  room 
Become  a  garden,  then  a  tomb  ; 

Then  keep  it  while  ye  may 

55 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


A  little  wild,  where  we  may  see 
The  unthreatened  glory  of  a  tree, 

And  feel  the  fountain's  spray. 
Reserve  one  spot  where  we  may  find 
An  untamed  accent  in  the  wind ; 
And  beds  of  moss  unbroken,  where 
To  mark  the  footprint  of  the  bear ; 
One  stream  of  water  mountain-pure 
Wherein  the  wild  trout  may  endure 
And  the  wild  deer  may  drink  and  bathe  secure  ! 


SONNETS 
I -XVI 


THE  flood  of  life  that  turned  away 
In  search  of  rarer  things,  the  rose, 
The  fragile  flower  that  bursting  blows, 
And  as  it  blows  turns  to  decay, 
Once  more  seeks  rest  along  the  way 
Of  earlier  days  and  finds  repose 
In  love  of  each  green  thing  that  grows, 
A  bunch  of  grass,  an  alder  spray. 
You  common  things  I  hold  you  dear 
And  beg  the  comfort  you  can  give ; 
The  faith  that  bears  you  through  the  year, 
The  courage  both  to  die  and  live ; 
Believing  that  I  too  shall  hear 
The  mountains  fall,  and  shall  not  grieve. 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


II 


TEN  thousand  fancies  flitting  through  the  mind, 
An  impulse  here,  a  half-created  thought 
Are,  in  the  stress  of  fancied  duty,  taught 
To  bow  and  pass  and  leave  no  trace  behind. 
Or  carelessness,  destructive  as  the  wind, 
More  prodigal  than  nature,  valuing  not 
The  store  of  life  that  pain  and  joy  have  wrought 
Laughs  and  forgets,  blind  leader  of  the  blind  ! 
We  are  but  open  caskets  whence  are  fled 
The  choicest  gifts  God-given ;  while  we  retain 
Indifference  with  a  blustering  hardihead, 
And  querulousness  before  a  righteous  pain ; 
Pale  pietism,  when  virtue's  self  is  dead, 
With  smug  conceit  impregnable  and  vain. 


60 


SONNETS 


III 


MERCY !  Justice  !  Ah,  no  !  Heaven's  gate  ! 
Heaven's  gate  ! " 

Panic  above  the  crash  of  trampling  horse 
And  rush  of  wings  upright  against  the  course, 
A  cry  of  gods  confounded  under  fate  ! 
In  tumult  deep  and  inarticulate 
The  angelic  press  burst  outward,  of  the  Source 
Of  bulk  Omnipotence  compelled  by  force  — 
Save  Lucifer,  omnipotent  in  hate. 
Bright  as  the  dying  day,  with  one  black  cloud 
Up-marshalled  from  the  south  and  crossing  o'er 
The  glory  and  blotting  out  the  evening  star, 
So  for  a  space  he  stood ;  then  silent  bowed, 
And  from  the  battlements  outspringing  far 
Deep  into  darkness  all  his  anguish  bore. 


61 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


IV 

I  LOVE  the  hills  but  she  the  open  shore, 
The  shore  because  it  lies  along  the  sea. 
I  would  be  lofty,  solitary,  free, 
Selfish  at  times ;  at  times,  hearing  the  roar 
Of  the  ocean  where  beneath  the  bending  oar 
It  does  the  planet  service,  I  would  be 
As  rich  in  blessing,  yea,  as  rich  as  she 
Is  rich  in  blessing ;  I  could  not  be  more. 
I  walk  apart,  my  heart  is  in  the  sky, 
Yet  ever  yearning  downward  to  the  land ; 
She  walks  where  all  the  world  is  crowding  by 
And  holds  a  little  child  in  either  hand  j 
I  bless  her  service  with  a  troubled  cry 
Of  one  who  would  but  cannot  understand. 


62 


SONNETS 


I  CANNOT  face  the  utterance  of  a  prayer 
In  innocence  j  I  know  not  by  what  gate 
Egress  it  finds  beyond  the  fields  of  air ; 
In  what  vain  corridor  my  words  may  wait. 
A  mystic  once,  I  did  communicate 
With  my  own  self  and  thought  with  God  to  share 
My  hope  and  aspiration ;  but  of  late 
My  words,  like  Noah's  dove,  returning  bare, 
I  feel  the  confines  of  my  spirit's  heaven. 
Against  the  limits  of  myself  in  vain 
They  strike  and  bruise  their  wings  and  downward 

fall. 

Then  to  myself,  Peace  !  do  I  cry,  and  call 
That  sufferance  peace  which  yet  is  perfect  pain : 
In  courage,  Peace  !  when  there  is  no  peace  given. 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


VI 

TO  catch  at  that  which  never  can  be  caught, 
To  yearn  for  what  thou  never  shalt  attain 
(Nature's  own  motions  moving  in  the  brain) 
This  is  thy  life  and  thou  by  her  art  taught. 
This  is  her  gift ;  to  thee  if  welcome  not 
With  all  its  store  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Thou  hast  the  power  to  give  it  back  again 
And  break  the  bow  before  thou  triest  the  shot. 
Nay  rather  let  me  live  to  fight  the  fight 
And  die  the  death,  when  driven  against  the  wall, 
That  many  a  man  has  fairly  fought  and  died. 
Then  shall  I  keep  the  spark  she  gave  me  bright 
(Gigantic  mirth,  that  gave  it  to  deride  ! ) 
And  cast  it  at  the  heavens  even  as  I  fall. 


64 


SONNETS 


VII 

A  MONTH  ago  the  cloud  alone  was  fair. 
None  watched  the  leafless  tree-tops,  thin  and 

Hold  up  their  slender  fans  against  the  sky 
Save  here  a  poet  and  a  dreamer  there. 
But  now  the  sun  through  the  soft,  golden  air 
Requires  an  incense  from  the  flowers  that  lie 
Within  a  thousand  vales  ;  and  low  and  high 
The  broad  earth  doth  a  pale  green  mantle  wear. 
Now  voices  are  where  all  was  still  before  ; 
By  each  green  leaf  there  trembles  a  brown  wing ; 
A  thousand  small  lives  wake  beside  my  door 
And  ea^h  one  turns  to  labor  and  to  sing. 
At  last*  man  feels  the  tumult  of  the  spring 
And  looks  upon  the  universe  once  more. 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


VIII 

A  THOUSAND  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues 
-t\Born  of  the  sunset  and  the  early  dawn, 
Burn  in  the  darker  forest  and  suffuse 
An  unimagined  brightness  o'er  the  lawn. 
These  are  the  days  I  give  my  heart  in  pawn 
To  thee,  O  nature,  and  the  world  refuse  ; 
These  are  the  days  I  feel  my  footsteps  drawn 
To  seek  the  wayward  motions  of  the  muse  ! 
I  have  not  long  enough  on  earth  to  stay 
To  lose  the  joy  of  one  bright  summer  day  ; 
One  quiet  day  of  peace,  ah  many  a  one  ! 
Full  of  the  song  of  birds  and  tremulous 
With  sunshine  ;  let  the  world  seek  after  us  : 
The  muse  and  I  are  wandering  with  the  sun. 


66 


SONNETS 


IX 


I  STOOD  long  time  and  listened  to  the  wind 
That  tossed  the  fallen  foliage  o'er  and  o'er ; 
Long  time  I  stood ;  then  turned  within  to  bind 
An  evergreen  upon  the  open  door. 
When  winter  comes  to  sweep  across  the  floor 
And  freeze  the  panes  perforce  the  huswife  mind 
Shuts-to  the  autumnal  door  and  there  reclined 
Battens  on  books  till  summer  comes  once  more. 
I  cannot  stop  her ;  turning  to  the  shelves 
Her  idleness  she  feeds  on  other  men ; 
Takes  what  she  finds,  complaining  not  and  delves 
In  mines  deep-sunken  with  the  golden  pen  ; 
Then  weary  grows  and  longs  to  see  again 
The  spirits  of  the  sky,  the  woodland  elves. 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


MOOSILAUKE  IN  DECEMBER 

THE  wet,  brown  leaves  of  winter  on  the  ground 
Unkempt  they  looked  or  evil,  one  by  one 
Called  back  to  vision  by  a  careless  sun ; 
He  should  by  this  have  reached  his  southern  bound 
Leaving  December  earth  all  straitly  gowned 
In  decent  white  ;  but  here  we  trod  upon 
Her  bosom  black,  uncovered  and  undone, 
And  shrank  from  many  a  wet  and  naked  wound. 
The  Parthian  sun  his  arrows  to  the  head 
Drew,  and  within  the  field  a  little  rill 
Beneath  an  edge  of  morning  ice  awoke  ; 
A  line  down  through  the  mat-brown  grass  it  led 
White,  threaded  with  the  blue  the  heavens  spill, 
And  tinkled  coldly  past  a  frozen  oak. 


68 


SONNETS 


Light  veils  of  snow  the  west  wind  bore  along, 
White  shadows,  drifted  through  the  upper  air 
Above  the  valley ;  they  were  very  fair 
And  passed  in  music  like  a  summer  song. 
I  stood  upon  a  mountain ;  here  the  strong 
Wild-Ammonoosuc  rolled  in  forests  bare, 
A  tumult  in  his  hollow  pathway ;  there 
Whispered  through  Wildwood  with  an  icy  tongue. 
The  sunlight  shone  on  Kinsman  through  the  cloud 
And  turned  the  little  falling  snow  to  gold 
Which  never  reached  the  earth,  but  it  went  back 
Into  the  chambers  of  the  air ;  the  loud, 
White  shepherd  west  wind  drove  into  the  fold 
And  forests  waving  showed  his  vanished  track. 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


Standing  above  the  Tunnel  gorge,  the  brook 
Unseen,  unheard  below  I  knew  laid  out 
And  trimmed  its  tenements  for  April's  trout, 
Rested  and  ran  from  hidden  nook  to  nook. 
The  wintry  forests  in  the  wind  had  shook 
December  from  their  branches ;  round  about, 
The  sun  had  aided  in  the  season's  rout 
To  Moosilauke ;  and  when  to  him  I  look, 
White  snow  and  winter  build  in  me  a  sense, 
Structured  on  beauty  awful  and  serene, 
Of  majesty,  a  pressing  sense  of  fear. 
I  never  saw  a  vision  more  intense 
In  awfulness  than  that  tremendous  scene  — 
Black  Moosilauke,  uprising  dark  and  near  ! 


70 


SONNETS 

So  very  near  !    Far  down,  the  Tunnel  run 
Crept  out  beneath  the  mountain's  heavy  base ; 
Buttress  and  bastion  mounting  I  could  trace 
In  upright  courses  to  the  supreme  One, 
High,  distant  dome  where-over  bits  of  sun 
Ran  with  the  rolling  clouds  a  windy  race. 
But  all  beneath  was  blackness,  and  my  face 
A  breath  as  of  the  mountain  fell  upon. 
A  whisper  from  the  mountain  came  across, 
So  dark,  so  strong  !  a  breath  in  blackness  drawn, 
Long  drawn  and  deep,  so  near  we  were  and  high  ! 
And  then  it  seemed  a  simple  child  might  toss 
Against  the  opposed  wall  a  pebble-stone, 
Deep  in  the  Tunnel  gorge  to  roll  and  lie. 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


XI 


THE  poet  stoops  and  plucks  a  little  flower 
To  tell  his  greatness  in  a  simple  song ; 
He  does  not  need  through  seasons  to  prolong 
A  mighty  work  to  manifest  his  power ; 
Which  still  is  simple,  still  the  common  dower 
If  unexpressed,  of  many  in  the  throng 
Unconscious  who,  with  poetry  along, 
In  life's  sojourn  spend  many  a  happy  hour. 
So  Burns  delights  us  with  a  lowly  lay, 
The  warm  expression  of  a  simple  joy  ; 
So  Wordsworth,  moving  through  each  quiet  day, 
Forgets  not  the  quick  impulse  of  the  boy ; 
And  midst  thy  passion,  Shelley,  to  destroy, 
Thou  'st  found  the  truth  along  the  lyric  way. 


SONNETS 


XII 

I  HATE  the  vast  array  of  "  modern  "  things, 
Gilt  and  pale  purple,  yellow,  pink,  and  white  ; 
Dull  imitations  and  a  thousand  light 
And  weightless  books  of  verse  and  copyings. 
There  are  so  many  !  Every  season  brings 
A  thousand  fashions  new  and  with  delight 
Proclaims  them  beautiful ;  till  I  take  flight 
And  turn  me  to  the  masters  and  the  kings. 
And  yet  they  will  not  let  the  masters  be ; 
I  find  my  Walton  in  a  showy  dress ; 
Find  all  the  bright,  old-age  simplicity 
Bedecked  and  botched ;  the  years  of  good  Queen 

Bess 

Are  made  the  dull  philistine's  property ; 
And  Burns  is  "  popularly  "  sent  to  press. 


73 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


XIII 

HIGH  on  a  sunward-mounting  precipice 
Edged  with  a  cloud  that  all  before  me  ran, 
I  backward  gazed  and  pictured,  span  by  span, 
How  I  had  mounted  upward  from  the  abyss ; 
By  what  a  confused  pathway  come  to  this, 
The  end  of  earth ;  and  saw  the  future's  plan 
Grow, "  minimize  the  universe  to  man," 
And  build  a  daring,  nobler  edifice. 
Ah,  struggle  to  assume  this  new  control 
And  seek  thy  higher  reaches,  O  my  soul ! 
Thou  'rt  sure  of  this,  thy  feet  are  on  the  earth  ; 
Forget  it,  it  remains ;  but  let  thine  eyes 
Lead  on  thy  heart,  and  find  beyond  the  skies 
At  least  the  promise  of  an  upward  birth. 


74 


SONNETS 


XIV 

HONEY  of  woodland  wild  and  of  the  hill, 
The  juices  of  the  maple  and  the  cane 
And  all  the  fulness  of  the  fallen  grain ; 
The  pauses  in  the  running  of  the  rill, 
Silence  of  distant  meadows,  voices  far 
Of  unseen  swallows  in  the  upper  air ; 
The  beauty  of  the  bending  bough  j  the  rare, 
Soft  rose,  the  sunbeam  and  the  melting  star  — 
What  are  they  all  but  shadows  in  the  night 
To  thee,  where  beauty  burns  a  perfect  light ! 
I  see  thee  standing  gracefuller  than  grass, 
Nakea,  with  one  foot  in  the  lingering  stream, 
The  sun  upon  thee,  perfect !  or  alas, 
Is  it  not  thee,  my  dryad,  but  a  dream  ! 


75 


FIRST  POEMS  &  FRAGMENTS 


XV 


THE  warm,  moist  kiss  of  April  on  the  grass ; 
The  stooping  sun,  the  wet  and  fragrant  plain  j 
The  voice  of  life,  low-whispered  as  I  pass  ; 
The  vision  of  the  summer  through  the  rain ; 
A  thousand  thoughts  borne  outward  from  the  mind 
Laughing  at  nature,  caught  and  held  again 
Close  to  the  stirring  heart,  till  like  the  grain 
In  autumn  they  are  scattered  by  the  wind  ! 
And  some  may  range  along  the  open  sky, 
And  some  may  fall  and  live  and  some  may  die. 
I  care  not  now  whether  the  wanton  air 
Rid  me  of  flying  chaff  or  sift  the  seed 
Of  future  promise ;  or  if  this,  indeed, 
My  present  fancy  lead  me  anywhere  ! 


SONNETS 


XVI 

TLAYED  upon  a  rock  beside  the  sea 

J- A  spray  of  eglantine  where  all  about 

The  water  rushed  in  torrents  in  and  out 

Among  the  wet,  black  rocks  tempestuously. 

To  eastward  high,  a  little  promont'ry 

Up-bore  the  billows  on  his  iron  breast  5 

And  thence  they  rolled  beyond  him  to  the  west 

Surging  about  my  eglantine  and  me. 

And  of  the  mightiest  waves  their  spray  that  cast 

White  and  imperious  far  into  the  air, 

Not  one  but  passed  the  sweet-briar  safely  by. 

Till,  midst  the  churning  foam  and  surges  there 

That  reached  but  could  not  clutch  it,  rising  high 

The  tide  itself  did  take  it  at  the  last. 


77 


FRAGMENTS 
I-V 

¥ 


I 


IN  the  low-lying  April  afternoon 
The  earth  was  hushed  within  a  mellow  mist 
Across  the  new  brown  meadows  j  the  white  sun 
Was  gathered  in  a  knot  of  clouds  and  gave 
No  thought  of  an  infinity  beyond. 
Each  blade  of  grass  was  conscious  of  its  shadow ; 
The  sounds  of  birds  and  waters  and  the  air 
Were  stilled  within  the  silence  where  I  sat 
Beside,  and  as  I  sat  I  felt  the  least 
Of  nature's  children  that  around  me  played, 
And  all  was  like  a  dream.    I  gathered  up 
A  handful  of  the  grass  and  then  forgot  it ; 
I  felt  a  gentle  rising  of  the  wind 
And  heard  a  sparrow  whisper  close  at  hand, 
With  other  little  life  beside  me ;  but 
The  distance  faded  and  the  nearness  grew 
Confused  to  a  fancy  in  the  gray, 
The  desolate  gray  shadow  of  the  earth, 
Unreal  and  dimly  dying  from  my  thought 
Till  all  was  nothing  save  the  sun  and  me. 


FIRST  POEMS  Sr  FRAGMENTS 


II 


WESTWARD  I  walked;  the  sun  was  low; 
the  plain, 

Seeming  to  rise  before  me,  with  the  earth 
Revolving,  rolling  backward  to  the  east, 
Shut  out  the  dropping  sun.    I  hastened  on, 
But  still  the  day  grew  darker  as  the  west 
Drew  in  its  last,  white,  fading  fan  of  light, 
And  all  the  world  was  cold  ;  and  when  the  land 
Ceased  to  reflect  the  sky,  and  heavy  lay, 
And  dully,  by  itself,  I  came  where  spread 
A  darkling  mirror,  whitened  half,  and  blue, 
Still  cherishing  a  faint  thought  of  the  sky. 
The  hour  was  calm,  forgetful  of  the  day, 
Where    toward  the   noon    the   pattering  rain    did 

beat 

The  fragrant  earth;  a  soft  green  mist  arose 
And  lay  across  the  opening  fields  ;  and  then, 
Sweeping  the  huddled  air  around  the  world 
The  silver  storm  scowled  black;  o'er  all  the  sky 
It  tore  itself  in  fury  and  ran  low 
Across  the  shuddering  earth ;  it  seized  the  trees, 
It  seized  the  mountains  in  its  gloomy  hands 
And  shook  them ;  while  the  terror  stricken  streams 
Leaped  madly  on  to  aid  the  warring  sea. 
Then  in  the  thronging  blackness  of  the  storm 
82 


FRAGMENTS 


I  had  rejoiced,  as  now  I  smiled  to  see 

The  fair,  white,  gentle  surface  of  the  lake 

And  feel  the  air  fall  softly ;  at  my  feet 

The  waters  rose  like  coming  thoughts  that  fall 

Forgotten,  and  my  mind  rose  till  it  ran 

As  smoothly  as  the  yet  unbroken  wave. 


Ill 


THE  wild-eyed,  savage  gull,  with  bow*d  wing, 
tips 

The  white,  flat  surface  of  the  misty  sea  ; 
Or,  stooping  in  the  wind-trod,  hollow  wave, 
Reels  upward  straight,  hangs  quivering,  his  whole 

self 

Intent,  and  breaks  the  surface  like  a  bolt ! 
This  spirit  of  the  mystery  of  the  sea 
Sweeps  by  in  silence  on  the  noisy  scud, 
Or  bursts  across  the  borders  of  the  storm, 
A  flash  of  horrid  white  ;  with  beating  wing 
Struggles  in  futile,  royal  wrath  against 
The  armed  battalions  of  a  mighty  wind, 
And  beaten,  leaps  aloft  upon  the  storm 
To  ride  in  fury  down  the  conquering  gale. 
Away,  thou  symbol  of  my  own  gray  thoughts  ! 
Whenever  from  the  heaven  of  weary  hopes 

83 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 


The  clouds  run  low  in  the  palely  flowing  sky ; 
Whenever  from  the  world  of  the  unachieved 
The  mists  mount  up  to  meet  the  drooping  cloud, 
And  I  between  them  fail,  't  is  thou  I  see, 
Thou  dreadful  emblem  of  my  darker  life  ! 
Thou  art  no  child  of  sunlight,  for  indeed, 
Whether  beneath  some  purple  summer  eve 
Thou  weariest  thy  way  into  the  west, 
Or  in  the  winter  on  the  frozen  bay 
Standest  erect,  a  white,  mad,  ravened  king, 
Life-banished  by  the  ice,  thou  art  the  same, 
Grim,  busy  with  thyself,  hard,  gloomy,  wild. 


IV 


AT  sunset  in  the  college  close  the  light 
Falls  like  a  benediction  softly  down ; 
Here  is  a  moving  stillness  in  the  air, 
Quiet,  as  though  the  now  deserted  east 
Had  laid  its  empty  hand  upon  the  lawns 
And  hushed  the  world  ;  from  out  the  glowing  west 
The  sunlight  settles  on  each  tender  leaf, 
And  entering  in  the  gentle,  empty  cells 
Calls  through  the  hollow  tubes  ;  down  to  the  earth 
Trembles  the  peaceful  summons ;  and  the  grass 
Drinks  in  the  sunset  light,  except  where  lie 


FRAGMENTS 

Dark  traceries  of  black  upon  the  green, 
Left  mourning  for  the  sun  the  while  the  tree 
Laughs  with  its  selfish  seizure  of  the  light ! 
This  is  the  life  of  peace ;  but  on  the  sky 
The  city  in  the  distance  casts  a  light 
Brilliant  and  false,  electric,  publishing 
Confusion  and  false  day,  nature  betrayed, 
And  all  the  dark  disguises  of  the  town ; 
The  frantic  strivings  after  more,  that  choke 
The  holy  fact  of  life,  which  single  here 
Sits  at  the  heart  and  bids  the  rest  be  still. 


WHEN  the  low  sun  descends  on  Hamlet  hill 
And  this  my  maple  throws  a  longer  line 
Of  lengthening  shadow  down  across  the  slope, 
Then  has  a  day  departed,  casting  yet 
A  lingering  light  from  sidelong  slopes  and  hills 
That  run  into  the  west.    Much  would  I  love 
One  passing  day  to  live  beneath  my  tree, 
And  there  within  its  shadow  on  the  earth 
Move  with  the  moving  sun  a  mutual  course. 
First  in  the  dawning  is  the  crystal  light 
Scarce  sprinkled  o'er  the  hill,  while  all  the  heaven 
Sheds  seeming  equal  brightness  on  the  world  ; 

85 


FIRST  POEMS  &•  FRAGMENTS 


But  after  comes  the  round,  revealing  sun, 
To  mark  his  influence  and  define  the  earth, 
Giving  my  tree  its  shadow  on  the  ground. 
And  therein  would  I  rest  and  through  the  day 
Follow  it  lengthening  downward  past  the  noon ; 
See  the  light  grasses  and  the  browsed  tufts 
Of  pasture  herbage  tremble  in  the  sun, 
Pale  upland  asters,  dusty  goldenrod, 
And  all  the  autumn  flowering  of  the  fields ; 
Then  feel  them  sink  to  quietness  within 
The  slow  advancing  shadow.  I  should  find 
A  joy  in  the  light  liftings  of  the  leaves, 
Breeze-shifted  shadows  trembling,  little  rays 
Of  unexpected  light  along  the  ground. 
Then  as  the  day  advanced  to  its  fall 
And  this  my  maple's  shadow  crept  along 
Downward,  I  should  forget  the  lesser  life 
Of  grass  blade  and  of  sunny  pebble-stone, 
Feeling  the  great  fact  of  the  day's  decline, 
The  coming  of  the  hour  when  all  the  hill 
Would  cast  its  shadow ;  of  the  later  night, 
The  shadow  of  the  earth.  Thus  would  I  live, 
And  one  day  thus  bid  welcome  and  depart. 


86 


TABLE  OF  FIRST  LINES 


TABLE  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Adam  arose  at  the  word  of  God  Page  25 

A  lark  flew  by  upon  the  air  15 

A  little  maiden,  in  her  hand  40 

A  month  ago  the  cloud  alone  was  fair  65 

A  thousand  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues  66 

At  rest  upon  some  quiet  limb  38 

At  sunset  in  the  college  close  the  light  84 

A  winding  water  onward  flows  v 

Be  more  concrete,  immediate  to  man  vm 

Even  in  the  city,  I  3 

Far  in  the  south  the  redwings  hear  and  speed  17 

High  on  a  sunward-mounting  precipice  74 

Honey  of  woodland  wild  and  of  the  hill  75 

I  cannot  face  the  utterance  of  a  prayer  63 

If  ever  I  have  thought  or  said  26 

I  followed  up  a  little  burn  32 

I  hate  the  vast  array  of  "  modern  "  things  73 

I  know  a  little  patch  of  mountain  ground  50 

I  layed  upon  a  rock  beside  the  sea  77 

I  left  the  city  to  the  north  and  walked  35 


FIRST  POEMS  £r  FRAGMENTS 

I  love  the  hills  but  she  the  open  shore  Page  62 

I  love  to  walk  against  the  yellow  light  12 

In  long  slow  silences  of  soul  25 

In  the  first  pale  flush  of  even  9 

In  the  low-lying  April  afternoon  81 

I  stood  at  the  hedge  as  a  hearse  went  by  22 

I  stood  long  time  and  listened  to  the  wind  67 

Light  veils  of  snow  the  west  wind  bore  along  69 

Like  a  dead  leaf  that  rolls  along  the  ground  24 

"Mercy!     Justice!     Ah,    no!     Heaven's    gate! 

Heaven's  gate  !  "  61 

Oft  have  my  footsteps  in  the  past  been  turned  42 

"Something  in  the  sense  of  morning"  19 

So  very  near  !   Far  down,  the  Tunnel  run  7 1 

Standing  above  the  Tunnel  gorge,  the  brook  70 

Still,  in  the  meadow  by  the  brook  I  lay  9 

Ten  thousand  fancies  flitting  through  the  mind  60 

The  breath  of  slowly-moving  spring  19 

The  flash  of  sunlight  from  a  bit  of  glass  13 

The  flood  of  life  that  turned  away  59 

The  influences  of  air  and  sky  14 

The  poet  stoops  and  plucks  a  little  flower  72 


TABLE  OF  FIRST  LINES 

The  road  ran  sloping  through  the  trees               Page  20 

The  scream  of  the  tern  in  the  roar  of  the  waters  23 

The  sea  is  silent  round  this  rocky  shore  7 

The  sun  is  up,  Great  God,  the  sun  is  up  47 

The  warm,  moist  kiss  of  April  on  the  grass  76 

The  wet,  brown  leaves  of  winter  on  the  ground  68 

The  wild-eyed,  savage  gull,  with  bow'd  wing,  tips  83 

This  is  thy  brother,  this  poor  silver  fish  16 

This,  Woodstock,  is  my  gift;   and  if  I  give  42 

Thou  little  god  within  the  brook  17 

'T  is  grace  to  sing  to  nature,  and  to  pray  3 

To  catch  at  that  which  never  can  be  caught  64 

Upon  a  pasture  hill  a  pine-tree  stands  4 

Westmoreland  and  the  hills  of  Cumberland  31 

Westward  I  walked  ;  the  sun  was  low  ;  the  plain  82 

What  know  I  of  the  fields  of  fall  5 

When  evening  comes  and  shadows  gray  10 

When  February  sun  shines  cold  8 

When  I  look  on  Ossipee  4 

When  the  low  sun  descends  on  Hamlet  Hill  85 

Where  man  has  conquered  nature  dies  18 

With  all  the  soul  within  me  and  suppressed  1 1 

Ye  seem  intent  to  stand  alone  54 


OF  THIS  EDITION  OF  FIRST  POEMS  AND  FRAGMENTS  FIVE  HUNDRED  COPIES 
HAVE  BEEN  PRINTED  WITH  FIFTY  COPIES  ADDITIONAL  ON  ENGLISH  HAND 
MADE  PAPER  AND  FIVE  COPIES  ON  JAPAN  PAPER  BY  THE  EVERETT  PRESS 
BOSTON  MAY  1895 


14  DAY  USE 

TO  DESK  FROM  WHZCH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 


REC'D  f  " 



10  Al 


LD  21A-60m-4,'64 
(E4555slO)476B 


.General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


